


The Nightwatch

by lalakate



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-16 11:15:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13635174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalakate/pseuds/lalakate
Summary: A wounded soldier meets a nightclub singer during the London Blitz of WWII.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work does deal with domestic abuse.

**October, 1940:**

The set was over.

He remained in his seat, watching the band pack their instruments away as they had every night. The dancing had ended, tightly interlocked couples grudgingly making their way off the floor, sharing a lingering kiss or belated twirl as cigarettes were extinguished. Some pairs had arrived together, some had formed an acquaintance within the non-judgmental confines of these walls, seeking relief from the unthinkable reality that was now their existence in a life all-too uncertain. But they were all now moving to leave, forced to abandon this short respite as they trudged their way either home or to the nearest shelter in preparation for the nightly horror expected at any time.

The Germans would be arriving soon.

He had been among their number each evening, moving with as much dignity as he could muster, hating the bloody cane that had become an extension of his body more with every lumbering step he took. He would find the closest shelter on his way, limping towards it with a pained deliberation that always garnered him looks of pity. He had been a soldier, was still in uniform, actually, but felt much less of a man. And he always left the club in the same manner in which he had arrived: alone. But tonight, he lingered, downing the rest of his drink as he attempted to work up his faltering nerve. He had found this club by accident, needing to escape the confines of his mother's house where he had felt so useless ever since sustaining his injury. But then he had seen her take the stage, had heard the smooth, smoky tones of her voice as she crooned "Kiss me Goodnight, Sargent-Major".

And he had been transfixed.

He had returned each night for her, imagining that she felt this magical connection between them, as well, even though the rational side of him knew it to be folly. Once he had even caught her smiling in his direction, and he had smiled back, fighting down the urge to wave. How very foolish, he had berated himself. She was exquisite, her black hair curled expertly, red lips full and pouty, ivory skin that just begged to be caressed. Yet she was most certainly above him, this goddess who took the stage each night to bring some joy into the lives of Londoners surviving the blitz.

Why would she even spare him a second thought? He—a man who couldn't even walk without the assistance of a cane.

But here he remained, determined to say something to her, to introduce himself, at least. What madness had possessed him to do this, he did not actually know, but he had downed an extra shot of brandy just to bolster his courage. He only prayed he didn't make a complete fool of himself.

He stood as the room cleared, making his way to the front towards a stage already mostly cleared. She had her back to him, a glass of water in her hand, and he noticed small freckles on the back of her neck for the first time. He stifled an outrageous urge to trace the spaces between them, wondering just what picture would emerge upon her skin if he did so. His tongue suddenly swelled, his mouth feeling nearly numb as the scent of her perfume tickled his nose.

And then the inevitable happened. He sneezed.

She turned quickly in his direction, much to his mortification, finding herself staring into crystal blue eyes sheepishly attempting to hide from her in a manner that made her want to smile. Something she rarely did anymore.

"Bless you."

He blushed profusely, warding off yet another sneeze as the rich texture of her voice stroked his spine from the bottom up.

"Thank you," he replied, managing a few steps in her direction, silently praying he wouldn't fall.

"Can I help you, soldier?" Her question caught him off guard.

"No," he replied quickly, "I mean, yes…well, actually I don't need your help, I simply wanted…" He stopped, mortified by his nervous stammering, making her smile even more as she turned to face him fully.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your singing," he managed, casting his eyes down as he blushed in earnest. "You're quite good, you know."

"No, not really," she returned without thinking, suddenly catching herself and stating, "But thank you for the compliment."

"But you are, truly," he insisted with a lop-sided grin, flabbergasted that she could have any doubt concerning her talent. "Your voice is..is incredible. It's easy to compliment you when you bring me such joy each evening." Too late he realized what he had revealed, feeling a flush rise from his kneecaps that engulfed him within seconds.

"I wondered what made you come back every night," she mused, daring a step off the stage and moving towards him. "If the bartender had a particular talent or you fancied one of the cigarette girls."

She had taken note of him? Sitting in the back corner, trying to be anonymous, trying to blend into the walls?

"Are there cigarette girls here? I never noticed."

She flashed a coy grin in his direction, feeling a slight flutter in her ribs that alerted her to be cautious. The last time she had felt stirrings like these, it had ended in disaster. But still, he did seem harmless enough. And it felt so nice to smile again.

"I'm Mary," she dared, noting the rounding of his eyes as she extended her hand. "Mary Carlisle." He blinked in succession, rather stunned at being offered such an introduction.

"I thought your name was Mary Rose," he delved, ears reddening a bit at the attention she was paying him.

"Stage name, of course," she remarked, looking towards his cane. "Is that why you never dance?" He dropped his head slightly, clearing his throa

t. "Rather difficult to dance with only one good leg, you know." The sudden pain in his eyes made her flinch.

"Oh, I don't know. I'd say you could manage rather well." A double-edged smile managed a path across his face.

"Easy to say when you've never had to be my partner." He then blushed at the implication of his words, breathing deeply as he sought to correct himself. "I'm sorry, I should never have…."

"What's your name?" She was staring at him directly, awaiting a response with raised brows.

"God, I'm sorry," he replied. "I'm Matthew. Matthew Crawley."

"That's funny, actually," she replied with a grin.

"What is? My name?" he questioned. "No," she corrected hastily. "No, it's a marvelous name, really. It's just odd that my name is also Crawley…or my maiden name, rather."

"Your married?" he questioned with a dry tongue, feeling quite suddenly deflated. He had noticed no ring upon her finger, something which he had ascertained for himself the first night he come.

"Technically," she sighed, the smile that had graced her lovely face conspicuously absent. "But not for much longer, thank God. I'm divorcing my husband."

"I'm sorry," he uttered, the sincerity in his eyes stirring something inside of her.

"Don't be," she returned. "I should have done it ages ago."

He looked back up at her, wondering just why she was standing here in a nearly empty club sharing this with him. He felt suddenly out of place, both curious and saddened for her circumstances before the scream of a siren broke through their conversation.

"We'd best get to a shelter," he stated calmly, calculating just how quickly they could traverse to the nearest one. But her arm on his own got his attention, a slight yet insistent tug stilling his tongue.

"Follow me." She led him through a small door to the backstage area where he saw the remnants of the band darting through a door in the rear. He started to follow him, but she clasped his hand, pulling down an out-of-the-way staircase that descended into nearly complete darkness. "Wait here while I turn on the light," she issued quietly, understanding how difficult it would be for him to traverse the stairs in the dark. He heard her feet shuffle down wooden steps quickly, caught the sound of a chain being pulled that released a dim light. He made his way down slowly, cane pressing into his palm as he finally reached a rather bleak basement. A dull but insistent throb began to pulse up his leg into his lower back, and she halted her steps, looking at him in concern. "Can I help?"

"No," he admitted. "Sometimes I have these spasms, and there's nothing to do but wait them out." She nodded twice, the concern in her eyes clear.

"This way," she instructed, maneuvering slowly by cleaning supplies tucked against the wall towards a door in the back corner. She pulled out a key, making rather quick work of the lock as she tossed a look in his direction. A grimace pinched his face involuntarily, making him clench his teeth as he felt beads of sweat bullet across his forehead. Her eyes narrowed, studying him wordlessly as she let them both in. She then grabbed a torch from a small shelf, turning it on deftly before returning to douse the main light she had just activated. Matthew looked around the small enclave, noting it was not much more than a decent-sized storage closet.

"Are you sure this is safe?" he questioned when she returned and shut the door behind them.

"It's where I always go to hide from the Germans," she returned calmly, taking a seat on the floor as she gestured for him to join her. "I'm rather claustrophobic, actually, and the one time I went to an actual shelter I nearly hyper-ventilated."

"Well, this is rather cozy," he commented with a small smile, noting how ethereal her face looked in the beam of a torch. "Should we put that out as well?"

"Why? There are no windows." He noted the logic of her response and slowly managed his way down the wall to her side.

"Do you usually sit down here by yourself when the bombs are falling?"

"Yes." Her matter of fact response was tragic somehow, that this beautiful woman would be sitting alone in a dark closet while London lay with held breath under siege.

"Aren't you ever frightened?" he inquired, attempting to hide the flinch in his cheek as his muscles cramped painfully.

"Always," she admitted, her confession accentuated by a momentary silence. The muffled wail of the siren was the only accompaniment to the sound of their breathing as a fragile sense of connection was laced in unlikely accommodations. "Where does it hurt?" she finally dared, needing to take attention away from what was occurring all around them.

"It will pass, I assure you," he began, cut short by an insistent tone.

"Where?" Resistance was apparently futile. He leaned forward slightly, pointing to his lower back as best he manage, the movement tensing his body yet again. She stared at him wordlessly, the torch's rays making her appear as some sort of benevolent spirit. He then felt his jacket being unbuttoned, starting quickly at the boldness of her touch. "What are you doing?" he managed, his tongue suddenly rather thick for normal conversation.

"I'm going to massage your back," she stated clearly, her tone leaving him no room for refusal.

"You really don't have to do that," he put in, suddenly quite self-conscious of having such exquisite hands working on skin marred by war.

"I know," she retorted, stilling the motion of her fingers for a moment. "I want to." He paused, processing that in the darkness his scars would not be visible but would most certainly be felt. He was both touched and mortified by her offer.

"Alright," he acquiesced, sensing the small smile upon her face more clearly than he could see it. She deftly undid the buttons of his jacket, relieving him of it with ease. Her eyes never left his as she slid cool fingers behind him, attempting to relax muscles balled into tight fists. He drew a quick breath, more from the shock of contact rather than actual discomfort.

"Sorry," she breathed, hesitating her ministrations as she eyed him warily.

"No, it's not you, believe me," he reassured her, daring a touch to her arm. Did her eyes just deepen in intensity? The limited light made it impossible to tell as the unmistakable sounds of muffled explosions drew their attention. The mere seconds of silence between them were stifling, eyes that appeared almost silver in their dim confines attempting to draw comfort from the other as fear encircled them both.

"Is this alright?" she questioned softly, kneading the small of his back expertly in a most welcome distraction.

"It's quite nice, actually," he exhaled, the warmth of his breath tickling her neck even as he flinched.

"How did this happen?" she inquired, hoping she had not encroached into territory too personal.

"In France," he began, somehow finding this discussion less distasteful than it had been in the past. "I was a bit too close to an explosion."

"Thank God you weren't any closer." Her fingers stilled at these words, and he became quite aware of just how very near she was sitting. "What happened with your husband?" He wasn't sure what exactly prompted the question, hearing an audible release of breath through her teeth.

"Let's just say he's not the nicest of men." He turned his face towards her fully, his stomach knotting in dread.

"Did he hurt you?" Her hands stilled, a new state of agitation radiating palpably from her in the small space.

"At times." He exhaled harshly, his hand fleetingly touching hers in a gesture of comfort.

"The bloody bastard," he voiced, the rough texture of his tone rather taking her by surprise. "How long have you been married to him?"

"About two years," she answered, the resignation lacing her voice painful to hear.

"Dear God," he returned, wanting very badly to pummel the culprit, angered even further by his decided inability to do so. "How did you manage for so long?" A rueful sigh escaped her, and she folded her hands in her lap as she scooted around to face him.

"It didn't happen much at first, and he was always so remorseful afterwards," she began, still attempting to explain to herself just how she had let this situation continue as long as it had. "Looking back, I really should have paid more attention during our engagement. There were signs, I think, but I choose to overlook them."

"You loved him," he deduced, saddened that such a lovely emotion could bring about such devastation. "No." Her frank reply stunned him.

"So why marry him in the first place?"

"Because it's what girls like me are expected to do," she answered flatly. "To marry someone wealthy and powerful, regardless of whether there is actually any emotion involved." His mind was spinning, trying to interpret her statements and place them in a logical framework.

"Your family is wealthy, I take it," he ventured, leaning unconsciously closer to her.

"Used to be. But that's another story." In other words, she did not wish to speak of it any further. "How about you?" she questioned. "Any special woman in your life?" He chuckled and shook his head, thinking to himself that she was the most incredible creature on whom he had ever laid eyes.

"Yes," he teased, observing her eyes widen slightly. "My mother." She actually smiled again at this comment, scooting closer until her leg touched his thigh.

"I find it hard to believe that you don't have a sweetheart tucked away somewhere." Her voice acquired a velvet-like lushness, and he began to wonder just how warm this closet could become.

"I did," he replied, his throat suddenly tight. "But she turned-tail and ran when I came back from the front."

"Because of your leg?" She seemed truly affronted by this fact, reaching down to touch him below his knee.

"Please don't," he insisted quietly, grabbing her arm in motion with lightning-fast reflexes. He could not allow her to feel it, to see what had been simply too much for Lavinia to stomach.

"Why? Because it's artificial?"

Her frank knowledge rendered him speechless, and he gazed at her, too stunned to move. Finally, he nodded, unwarranted shame at his situation making him drop his eyes.

"Y-yes," he whispered, unable to look at her for some reason while making this confession. "Because I lost my lower leg." She withdrew her hand from his slowly, gluing her eyes to his expression as she deliberately lowered her hand, touching him where he could feel nothing but raw emotion.

"I don't care, you know," she breathed, stroking the prosthesis in a rather intimate manner. "No self-respecting woman would."

"You don't think it makes me less of a man?"

He had to force the question from his lips, feeling every syllable acutely as he voiced thoughts purposefully kept secret. He felt fingers in his hair, brushing across his scalp, his mouth suddenly dry as silken lips caressed his forehead. His breath caught in his throat at the contact, sensations he had nearly forgotten skittering across nerves already on high alert. She then moved on top of him gently, sitting on his lap, straddling his hips in the dark as she inched herself forward. His hands moved around her waist of their own accord, her scent thrilling every cell in his body as it tickled the inside of his nose. But he held his breath resolutely, refusing to succumb to a threatening sneeze... Not when her soft curves were nestled so trustingly in his arms. A thumb feathered across his cheekbone, her nose rubbing his in anticipation just before her mouth made contact with his. And the bombs were all but forgotten.

Electricity shot through him in a jolt, his hands clutching her dress as he opened his lips to her. Her tongue slid inside, and his welcomed her quickly, together moving in a delicious dance accentuated by explosions rocking the city around them. She moved in closer, fisting his shirt in her palms as his arms pulled her tighter to him, the pain in his back be damned. She shivered at the feel of warm fingers on her neck, physically shuddered as his attentions moved into her hair, caressing her scalp. A delicious abandon was flowering inside of her, acute fears and stresses of the past years of her life pouring out of her into his mouth, burning away upon the heat of his tongue. Mouths merged closer, drinking deeply from the other, obliterating the ensuing carnage outside of this heady cocoon they were spinning around themselves. She finally drew back to breathe, clasping his face within her hands as she whispered into him.

"No, I'm certain it doesn't make you any less of a man." He couldn't think straight, couldn't truly process what had just happened. But he found he didn't care, simply wanting more of this, more of her, keeping his arms about her tightly as he sought the right words.

"You're a wonderful woman, you know." The sentiment escaped him in a breathless haze, and he felt her nuzzle in closer as she seemed to deflate.

"Don't get your hopes up on that one," she spoke into his cheek. "I can actually be quite dreadful when I want to be."

"I'm not sure I believe that," he attested softly, stroking her cheek so tenderly it nearly made her cry. "

Kiss me goodnight, Sargent-Major," she commanded throatily, leaning in forehead to forehead as the ground beneath them vibrated loudly.

"Gladly, Mary Rose," he grinned, pulling her firmly back to him as London stubbornly survived another night. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you going out again, Matthew?"

He turned to face her, his hand already clasped firmly around the doorknob.

"Yes, mother. Don't wait up. I'll let myself in as usual." He turned the handle, anxious to get back to her, to this woman with a voice of velvet and rich, satin eyes.

"You have been keeping rather odd hours recently." The observation hit home, making his spine straighten as much as it was able.

"Seeing as I basically went nowhere for months, I suppose my comings and goings would seem rather unusual these days." He prayed this line of conversation was over. Isobel Crawley traversed a path in his direction, daring him to make another move until she had been granted her say. He should have known better that to expect a reprieve.

"You're looking rather dashing," she observed, brushing off the front of his uniform. "You smell very nice, as well."

"Well, there's no need to simply lie about and let myself rot, now is there?" he questioned, knowing instinctively where this conversation was leading. "Cane or not, I am not an invalid."

"No," she agreed with a smile, her eyes taking in too much. "You are by no means an invalid, and I am delighted to see you up and about again, living your life." A life he had all but given up on until a certain brunette had crooned her way into it.

"Well, then," he put in with a sigh. "I'm glad we agree. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be off. There's a singer I'm keen to hear tonight at the club." He was eager to do more than simply listen to her, and his body responded too quickly as his mind replayed the feel of soft curves pressed in close, the taste of smoky kisses that blatantly reminded him he was a man. God—if he didn't get out of here within seconds, he would give himself away completely. "Good night, mother." He was halted by a hand on his shoulder.

"Who is she, Matthew?" Damn. The question prickled hairs along his neck, burning a path to his ears as he steadied himself.

"The singer, you mean?" he returned, attempting to sound unaffected and failing miserably. "Mary Rose. She has a lovely alto voice, but I'm certain you don't know her."

"I'm quite certain I don't," Isobel stated. "But I have a feeling you do. And fairly well, it would appear." He swallowed around the pastiness in his throat.

"What makes you think such a thing?" A small laugh made his good knee tense automatically.

"Hmm, where shall I begin?" she mused. "Red lipstick on your collar, the smell of perfume on your jacket, the fact that you walk in every night humming a different tune." His nose felt unnaturally hot. "Shall I go on?"

"No," he voiced quietly, unable to meet her gaze. "That is quite unnecessary." Her touch on his shoulder forced his eye, the smile beaming back at him unexpected.

"I'm glad for you, Matthew. Really. You deserve some happiness after…" She bit off the sentence, swallowing down an ending too distasteful to forgive.

"After Lavinia walked out on me," he finished for her, the sting of her actions having lessened over the past several weeks.

"I'm sorry," Isobel stated, shaking her head. "There's no need to bring her into this. She deserves no special mention, as far as I'm concerned. What a coward she proved herself to be."

"I would call her more of a realist," he defended, still unable to see Lavinia in the stark black and white hues his mother so clearly visualized. "Besides, I'm relieved that she had the courage to be honest about her misgivings rather than to placate me out of some misguided sense of pity. I couldn't bear that in a marriage."

"No," she returned with intensity. "Nor should you have to."

"I wish Lavinia well, truly I do," he insisted, secretly hoping he would never lay eyes on his former fiancée again.

"Then you're a better person than I," Isobel began, shaking her head, ridding herself of thoughts of a woman she would rather forget. "So this Mary—I take it she doesn't mind your leg."

Whispers in the dark brushed against caresses in the closet, competing for dominance in a memory overloaded with the essence of her. Red lips heating his neck and claiming his chin, his hands stroking her arms, her spine, the sides of her breasts, mouths meeting in a need forged from maimed lives balanced on the ledge of uncertainty.

"No," he admitted, staring down at his shoes. "She doesn't mind at all." And he for one could not figure out why.

"Then I'd like to meet her sometime," Isobel stated with a nod. "If things continue to progress between the two of you."

"I'd like that, too," he confessed, praying her divorce would move with the rapidity she deserved. Every day that she had to remain attached to that monster of a husband was one day too long.

"Well, then," his mother added. "Have a lovely evening, my dear. I'll probably be asleep when you wonder back home." He placed a kiss on her cheek, staring into eyes that had loved him through everything.

"Good night, mother," he returned, giving her a wink. He then stepped out into the streets of London with as much of a spring in his step as an artificial leg could muster.

* * *

 

She wasn't there.

The set was due to start in five minutes, the band had taken the stage, but Mary—the voice that drew in the audience night after night—had not arrived. How many times had she told him that she liked to arrive early, to have time to collect her thoughts and review any new numbers to ensure a smooth performance? Something was wrong—terribly wrong. God—where was she? It was then he noticed the saxophone player attempting to make eye contact, pointing to her microphone and shrugging in a wordless question. He looked as clueless as Matthew felt, their shared expressions of concern thickening his larynx as his insides hollowed out.

The band didn't know where she was, either. This could not be a good thing.

He pushed himself to a standing position, scanning the crowd, scoping each corner, looking in anticipation towards the stage door. Nothing. Mary was missing on the very night she had instructed him to listen for a song she was certain he would love, one she had chosen with him in mind. A chill gripped his intestines as his heart thudded in his ears. He had to find her. Something was most decidedly wrong.

He moved with a speed that surprised even him, pushing past those entering the club, maneuvering by cigarette girls selling their wares. Then he was back on the pavement, hobbling towards his car, wishing he could drive with the polish he possessed before his injury. Traffic was slow-moving, and he cursed repeatedly, slamming hands against the wheel in a frustration overtaking every nerve. Mary—he had to get to Mary. Thank God she'd told him where she lived in passing one night.

He jerked the vehicle sharply, rounding a corner in what he hoped would be a short cut. One never knew in London these days. Debris and rubble shut down normally operable routes with regularity, causing many a driver to lose considerable time rather than gaining it. He honked his horn without reason, passing a driver when he really shouldn't have, barely aware of anything besides the pulsing need to find her.

She had to be alright. It would damage him beyond repair if she wasn't.

He was nearly to her town house. Thank God. Thank God. He parked haphazardly, very nearly forgetting his keys in the ignition as he swung his frame out of the driver's seat and onto the pavement. Steps would not be an obstacle, he would force himself to hop if he must, and he persisted until he reached her door, his knock heavy, his heartbeat askew.

"Mary," he rasped, his voice scraping this throat. "Mary, are you there?" He pressed his ear to the door, listening for something, for anything to let him know that she was inside. Silence. "Mary, it's me. For God's sake, if you're in there, please let me in. I'm worried sick over you." He knew he was begging, but he didn't care. He would grovel to ensure that she was alright.

Wait—were those steps he heard just beyond the door frame? He held his breath in anticipation, standing in silence until the knob began to turn. Her profile met him through a crack, her face cast in shadow, her breathing unsteady.

"I'm alright, Matthew. It's very sweet of you to check on me, but you needn't worry." The shakiness in her tone did nothing to reassure him.

"Then let me in, Mary," he insisted, tempted to nudge the door but leery of unnerving her. "Please. I'd like to see you."

"I'm not feeling well," she asserted, continuing to hold him at bay. "And the place is a bloody mess."

"I don't care about any of that," he insisted, daring a touch to her hand, feeling more panicked by the second. "I care about you. Please, Mary."

The sound of a repressed sniffle wafted through the opening, and he saw her hand shake as the one eye he could see looked away from him. She stepped back with a sigh, tugging the door askew behind her, granting him entrance into a room bathed in darkness. He stepped over an umbrella, noting a faint smell of whiskey that lingered, an aftermath of something he subconsciously knew to be unspeakable. His eyes adjusted as he took in an overturned table, a broken vase on the floor, her purse open and flung aside, its contents scattered across the room. Skin prickled as the hair on his arms stood on end.

"What happened here?" Her head dropped to her chin at his question, her back all he could see. "Mary?"

"I'm alright, Matthew," she returned, the flatness of her tone as disturbing as the state of the room.

"I don't believe you," he insisted, taking two steps in her direction. "Please turn around."

An unnatural silence descended, the ticking of the clock thundering in his ears. Then a movement, a stirring, and she turned to face him with a deliberation that was painful to watch. God—he saw it all—a cheek bruised, her lower lip cut and swollen, ivory hands shaking uncontrollably. Icy heat welled in his stomach as his mouth twitched, the urge to vomit vying with one to cry out.

"God, Mary." He was by her side in an instant, softly touching her shoulder, beckoning her eyes, controlling a fury he would have to deal with later. "What did he do to you?"

A haunted vacancy met his gaze head on, and he took her hands in his own, shaking with a rage far greater than he had ever experienced in battle.

"He's never left a mark before. Not where anyone could see, I mean." Her tone was frighteningly detached.

"I'll kill him." Her eyes widened in an instant as her grip tightened around his, her fingers far too cold for his liking.

"No," she insisted, shaking her head. "You can't."

"I bloody well can," he asserted, his breathing almost painful. "He deserves it after—"

"He knows about us, Matthew," she interrupted, her eyes pleading with him. "I don't know how he found out, but he did. That's why he came here. If you go after him, he'll…" She swallowed with effort as her face dropped to her feet. "I can't let him hurt you, too."

"It's not your job to protect me, Mary," he clarified, growing more enraged with every breath. "And I'm more than capable of taking care of myself. I am a soldier, you know."

"Yes, I know." The words spilled from her in a rush, her hands tentatively reaching out to touch his chest. "But I could never forgive myself if he hurt you," she continued. "Not because of me. I'm not worth it."

"Yes, you are," he affirmed, stroking her hair with a gentleness that almost broke her. "You're worth everything." Strong arms wrapped around her, his cane all but forgotten as it clattered to the floor. He felt her quiver, then shake, and he steadied his footing, binding her to him as a tear slid into her hair. "Mary," he whispered, terrified to ask what he needed to know. "Did he, I mean, were you forced…"

"No," she breathed into his chest. "Nothing like that."

"Thank God," he muttered, feeling a ball of tension between his ribs deflate. What had happened to her was bad enough in its own right. If Carlisle had— No. That line of thought would send him over a ledge from which there was no return. "Let's pack up your things," he stated, concentrating on her, drawing her gaze. "You can stay with me for a while."

"What? But your mother…"

"Will understand perfectly," he broke in, smiling with a reassurance he did not feel. "And she's a nurse, you know. She can tend to your injuries while I contact the authorities."

"You mustn't call them," she argued. "It will only make things worse."

"They must be notified, Mary," he threw back. "He cannot get away with this." She sighed as the fight left her body.

"Just not tonight," Mary requested, licking wounded lips. "I need…I need to get away, to forget. Please, Matthew. Promise me." Her veneer now lay shattered, giving him a glimpse of raw agony laced with terror unmasked before his eyes. The impact nearly knocked him over.

"Alright," he agreed softly, setting aside his need for justice. "We'll do whatever you need for you to feel safe tonight." She rested her head on his shoulder, exhaling into his neck as he cupped her head with his palm.

"Thank you." Her words were more felt than heard, nuzzling into hardened places rendered to mere putty by her touch.

"Don't mention it," he returned, forcing back tears of anger and outrage to soothe exposed wounds. "Now let's see to your bags and get out of here."

* * *

 

 She said next to nothing the entire journey, staring vacantly out of the window, wiping her cheeks when she thought he wasn't looking. He caught himself wishing her husband would step in front of his car, relishing the thought of seeing his face contorted in shock, craving the sound of his body bouncing off the vehicle onto the street. Of course, that would deprive him of the satisfaction of strangling the bastard personally. He had never hated anyone with such passion.

"We're nearly there," he assured her, receiving a muted nod as a response. Her silence was killing him. No—this entire situation was killing him. Why in God's name had she ever married such a monster? And what on earth could he do to help her get away from him for good? They finally arrived, the shutting down of the ignition unleashing a silence that took over. "Shall we?" His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, drawing her eyes for the first time since they had set foot in his car.

"Are you sure about this, Matthew?" The tremor in her voice nearly undid him.

"Absolutely," he attested, turning to face her directly. "And I don't want you to worry about a thing, Mary. Is that understood?"

"Aye, aye, sergeant major," she returned with a first attempt at a smile, her expression wincing at the discomfort in her lip.

"Then let's get you inside and settled," he instructed. "I'll see to your bags."

"Let me help," she insisted softly, catching him off guard. "There's no need for you to make two trips."

Damn that bloody cane.

"I don't mind," he stated. "Really." Her eyes softened as she reached out to touch his cheek.

"I know," she breathed. "But I do." He couldn't deny her even this.

They made their way up the steps, pausing before the door as he fiddled for the right key.

"Matthew?" His mother's voice cut through the door, making him flush unexpectedly as Mary shot him a look.

"Yes. It's me, mother." The sound of chains being loosened and locks being turned met their ears, and the door opened a bit too quickly.

"What are you doing—" The question faded on her tongue, her mouth hanging agape.

"Mother, this is Mary," he began, attempting to ease the awkwardness of a situation that couldn't help but be uncomfortable. "Mary—my mother, Isobel Crawley." Beads of sweat trickled down his neck.

"It's very nice to meet you," Mary stated, ducking her head instinctively from eyes that took in everything.

"Likewise," Isobel returned, stepping back to allow them a passage. "Please, won't you come in?" His mother's stare singed his spine as he walked past. "I take it the show got cancelled this evening," Isobel attempted, following the other woman's movements as the atmosphere thickened.

"Yes," Matthew answered, turning to face his mother as Mary stared at the wall. "Yes it did." A car horn from outside made him jump. God, he had to get a grip on his nerves.

"Can I offer you anything to drink, Ms…"

"Mary. Just call me Mary."

Her voice sounded muffled, her shoulders tense as she braved mortification and faced Isobel directly. A soft intake of breath rattled his insides as he watched his mother's spine straighten in a flash. Any lingering evidence of shock vanished as the older woman. cleared her throat and smiled deliberately.

"Mary, then," she nodded. "And please call me Isobel." Eyes locked across the room, details given without a word being spoken. Matthew watched them anxiously, afraid to move lest he break some unknown spell, amazed at how neither woman flinched or blinked. "I think I'd like a brandy," Isobel stated pertly. "Shall I pour some for the two of you, as well?" The urge to hug his mother was nearly overpowering.

"That would be lovely, mother. Thank you." Mary exhaled audibly when Isobel left the room, nearly slumping into him as all the starch drained from her limbs.

"Come," he instructed, taking her arm. "You should sit down." She had no argument, allowing him to lead her to comfortable sofa into which her muscles melted on contact.

"Your mother is remarkable," she noted, haltingly touching the bruise just below her eye.

"Let me get you a cool cloth, or something," he insisted, wishing he had thought to do so when they first arrived. "That might take off the sting."

"The brandy will do that nicely," she returned, laying a hand on his upper thigh. "Just sit with me. Please." He had never seen her look so vulnerable.

"I'll stay until you ask me to move," he asserted, feeling dreadful as she smiled and then flinched.

"God, your lip. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," she declared. "It's not your doing." His hands fisted automatically, the urge to hit something pooling in his gut.

"I know," he agreed. "But I shall attempt to be as droll as possible so you will have no reason to smile."

"You always make me smile, Matthew."

His heart cinched and swelled simultaneously. His mother's steps halted at Mary's overheard declaration, pausing just before she moved in carrying a tray. They drank in silence, the need for conversation hovering just beyond a perimeter none of them wished to cross.

"Mary will be staying with us tonight," Matthew finally voiced, watching the older woman nervously over the rim of his glass. Pupils dilated, lips pressed together, and she set her glass down on the table.

"Of course she will," Isobel returned matter-of-factly. "I'll see to it that her room is made ready."

"You really don't have to—"

"Nonsense, my dear. I shall hear no argument." He looked from his mother to Mary, watching the agony of dependence work its way across her brow.

"Thank you, Isobel," the younger woman offered, taking another drink. "You don't know how much this means to me." Their eyes locked yet again.

"I think I do." He could find nothing to say. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll draw you a bath," his mother continued without a hitch. "I have a hunch that a long soak and Epsom salts might feel like heaven about now."

Mary nodded in silence, closing her eyes. How he wanted to take her hand and flee somewhere her husband couldn't find her, to a place untouched by war's ugly hand. Did such a place even exist anymore? He feared the earth would be forever scarred by the beasts threatening to devour it, whatever the outcome, whomever the victors. The evening wore on, and he stared out the window, fighting back the urge to call the police as Mary soaked in the tub. She had made him promise to do nothing tonight, but the thought of her husband going unpunished ate at him like a rabid parasite. Carlisle had to pay for his crime. It was only right. But Mary had begged him, had trusted him to honor her entreaty.

And there was nothing in this world he would do to betray that trust. Nothing. Damn.

She emerged much later, robed, clean, and clearly exhausted. They said goodnight in whispers, fingers tangling together in lieu of a kiss. His mother led her to a neglected guest room just across the hall from where he slept, so achingly close yet worlds away. It didn't really matter. He wouldn't sleep tonight anyway. Of that, he was certain.

Restless limbs stirred, tossing under blankets, his gaze drawn towards a moon miraculously unhampered by sirens. How thankful he was that they didn't have to run for shelter when she was in such a state. He prayed she was getting the rest she needed. Lids became heavy, and images blurred together, her purse, her face, the storage closet at the club, swirling in a cacophony until he was back in France, the smell of carnage much too close. Leaden feet were running towards something hazy, hearing a voice he couldn't identify, looking for a woman just out of reach. Then blackness overtook him. He sat straight up, gasping for air, trying to focus on something that didn't fit.

"Mary?"

She stared guiltily at him from the foot of his bed, twisting the tie of her robe into a frazzled knot.

"I couldn't sleep." It was then he noticed she was shaking, and his heart nearly burst from the weight of it. He flung aside warm blankets, inviting her where he knew she shouldn't be, not caring a whit about what his mother would say in the morning. She slid in without reservation, moving in close, pressing her face into his chest, grabbing on to him with everything she had. "Just hold me," she whispered, making him shutter in places he had forgotten existed.

"Try and stop me," he breathed, feeling her tighten around him as he sheltered her body with his own. He felt the rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of spent air on his shoulder, the chill of long fingers on his back. The thrum of her heartbeat pulsed into his veins, and he knew at that moment he loved her, body and soul, blood and bone. Quiet tears seeped through his pajamas, and he cradled her head, kissing her temple, stroking her arm.

"It's alright now," he assured her, wishing with every atom he could whisk away her pain. "We'll get through this, you know." Deep eyes stared back at him, crystalline from the shades of night drifting in through the curtains.

"I wish I'd met you years ago," she voiced, losing her fingers in his hair. "How different my life might be now."

"It's a lovely thought, isn't it," he agreed, envisioning a life with her, children with her, being welcomed home from the war with acceptance rather than rejection. "But we've found each other now. That's something."

"Yes," she murmured, her voice nearly drugged. "It is. I just hope it's not too late." His heart stilled momentarily as he tilted her chin in his direction.

"Don't even say such a thing," he instructed softly. "We're here together. Now. That's all that matters." Cold feet burrowed into his calf, making him wince anew at the gaping loss of the other.

"I told you I don't care about that," she assured him, daring a caress down his upper leg, stopping just before it ended prematurely.

"I know," he whispered, swallowing back shame that still stalked him. "But I do." Her forehead stroked his chin, hands fisting his pajamas with the fervor of a prayer.

"Don't. You're so much more than that." She snuggled in closer, burrowing into his skin, holding him with a ferocity he felt everywhere. "You make me feel safe," she confided into his shoulder, rocking him to the core of who he was.

"And you make me feel alive," he confessed as she sighed into him, limbs melting into each other until both of them finally slept.


	3. Chapter 3

Matthew felt rather than heard someone beside him, a tremble against his torso, a shaky exhale just by his shoulder, a damp cheek pressed against his chest. Hair tickled just there under his chin, hair that was not his, hair that smelled of an odd blend of lilacs and smoke, and he moved to scratch his stubble, the body wedged against his stiffening at his slight movement. He was hit by a moment of panicked confusion before both his whereabouts and bed companion finally registered in his sleep-laden mind.

He was in his room. In his bed. With Mary. And his mother was asleep just down the hall.

Eyes blinked open into the darkness, and he heard a muted gulp, her obvious desire to keep it silent only emphasizing it even more.

"Are you alright?" he whispered, and her nose nuzzled into his ribcage, her shoulders shaking as tears fell freely.

"No," she admitted, her voice cracked and thickened. "But I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry." He pulled her to him even closer, stroking her spine through her robe.

"I don't mind," he assured her, planting a kiss to her forehead, cautiously veering away from the bruise on her cheek. "It's not often I find my bed graced with the presence of a beautiful woman." A puff of laughter escaped her then, and she pressed herself up on one elbow, rubbing her cheek as she looked at him in the moon's dim light.

"I'm not very graceful at the moment," she stated. "And I know I must look a fright." He watched as she gingerly touched her right bottom lip, noting that seemed a bit larger than it had earlier, feeling her wince as if it were his own. Damn that Carlisle. Damn the man to hell.

"You're the epitome of grace," he returned as her forehead came to rest upon his. "And beauty. Nothing will ever change that."

A tear hit his skin, dripping from her eye onto his cheekbone. She wiped it away with her thumb, and he took her hand in his own, kissing the pad of her thumb, tasting the salty moisture of her pain.

"You're too good to me, you know," she told him, her nose almost nudging his.

"Nonsense," he returned, cupping the back of her head. "You're just not used to being treated as you deserve."

She lost control then, and he wrapped her in his arms deliberately, his own eyes misting as sobs wracked her wounded frame. She wept openly, dampening his shoulder, allowing him to hold and caress her, and he pressed kisses into her hair as his own tears mingled with hers.

"You're safe now," he assured her, feeling her nod rub his skin. "I won't let him hurt you again. I promise."

"I know you want to protect me," she reasoned, her voice barely audible against his ribs.

"And I will," he cut in, looking at her with a conviction that shook him. "Trust me on this, Mary. That man will lay hands on you again over my dead body."

"Don't say that," she implored shakily. "Please. There's been enough death in this world recently."

He nodded, the remembered stench of war fogging his senses. He shook his head, returning his thoughts to the woman in his arms, leaving the front lines and blur of trauma in favor of soft curves and marble skin.

"I do promise to protect you, Mary," he whispered. "And I plan on living a very long time, even if that is a foolish notion these days." She sniffed loudly, and he reached for a handkerchief resting on his nightstand, placing it in her hand. She wiped her face and nose delicately, and he laughed. "Go ahead," he instructed. "Get it out. I have others, you know."

Her smile nearly broke him then, and she blew her nose fiercely, her hair shaking freely about her shoulders and face, nearly covering the bruise inflicted by the very man who should have protected her.

"Well this is a bloody mess now," she managed, wadding up the handkerchief in her hand and tossing it aside.

"Good," he grinned, touching the tip of her nose. "That's what it's for." 

Her expression clouded under her smile, and he stroked her hair, losing his fingers in the feel of her locks. She leaned into his touch, his hand cupping her scalp, and she licked her lips before sighing into the night.

"What do you see in me?" Her question startled him, and he pressed himself up on his elbows, his stare incredulous and open-mouthed.

"Everything," he gushed, rubbing his other hand across his own scalp. "God, Mary, I'm the one who sits around wondering what a woman like you is doing spending time with a man like me."

"You must be joking," she uttered, and he shook his head with a disbelieving chuckle. "You're so…so good, so noble. And I'm a nightclub singer who has made a mess of her life and now has nowhere to go." His heart cinches at her words, and he cannot fathom how such a magnificent creature thinks so little of herself.

"You have a place with me," he argues, twirling a stray black tendril around his finger. "As long as you want it. As long as you'll stay."

Long fingers stroked his chest across the V neck of his pajama top, and it suddenly felt stifling. He fought back the desire to tug it off and toss it aside, knowing what would very likely happen if he gave into the temptation.

"I'm not sure just what your mother will have to say about that," she noted, and he laughed softly, never removing his touch from her skin, unable to look away.

"She understands your predicament," he assured her. "And mother is a firm believer in justice and helping those down on their luck."

"I'm glad," she stated, her gaze falling to his chest. "But I'm not one to accept help out of pity, Matthew. I can't stomach the thought of that."

"Do you really think this is out of pity?" He stared at her, holding her eyes firmly in his grasp.

"What is it, then?" she questioned, her voice trembling in time with her hands. He swallowed through the thickness of his throat, his mouth suddenly the texture of saw dust.

"Far more than pity," he managed, trying to gauge her reaction. "Something more than I ever anticipated when I walked into that nightclub." He inhaled audibly, nudging her nose with his own. "I love you, Mary."

Her breath catches, her lip quivers, and she tries to catch a stray tear that makes its way stubbornly down her cheek.

"Oh God," she whispered, placing a delicate kiss to his cheek. "I don't deserve you, Matthew."

"No," he agreed. "You deserve far better."

Her breathing intensified as another sob escaped her, and he hugged her close to him, determined to never let this woman out of his sight.

"I love you, too," she breathed, and he felt as if his heart might explode then and there. "But there's so much—"

"Shhh," he admonished gently with a kiss to her forehead. "We'll worry about all of that tomorrow. For now, let's just…let's just be."

"I think it is tomorrow," she smiled, and he chuckled, holding her hand to his chest.

"Then I can't think of a better way to start my day," he hummed. Her eyes closed, her fingers drew a sketch though his pajamas, and he was lost to her, completely and utterly.

"Kiss me," she instructed, leaning in until her lips hovered just over his. "Please."

"But your lip," he worried. "I don't want to hurt you, Mary."

"You won't," she insisted with a small smile. "I trust you."

He looked back at her, seeing his life inherently connected to hers, and he gently pulled her face down to his, touching his lips to her uninjured side ever so softly. She responded, her hand reaching up to hover gently down his cheek, their breaths wrapping themselves around each other, their bodies pressing close. His hands cupped her shoulder as his mouth traced a path across her jaw. She pulled him towards her until their positions changed and he hovered over her, his lips moving slowly down her neck, making her arch into him, making him groan.

"Don't stop," she breathed, and he kissed his way across her clavicle, tugging on her silken robe until it slid easily down the slope of her arm, exposing her shoulder to his mouth. This was dangerous, he knew it, but he couldn't stop touching her, stop kissing her, and his mouth encased the curve of her shoulder as her hands pressed into his scalp.

"Matthew," she cried as his hand crept slowly over her breast, his thumb moving back and forth over silken fabric until her nipple stood erect under his touch. He stopped then, looking down at her and nearly combusted on the spot. Her head was tossed back, her neck utterly exposed, her breasts barely covered by the thin material of her nightgown. "What's wrong?" she questioned, her breath coming in rapid flutters as she looked up at him in confusion.

"God, Mary," he attempted, words escaping him at the mere sight of her. "I want you so badly, but…" She propped herself up and stared into him, night shadows coloring her face in hues of charcoal and pewter.

"But?" she prompted, raising one hand to play with his hair.

"I won't take advantage of you," he murmured, feeling wretched that he had allowed things to go this far. "You've been injured, you're vulnerable. This isn't the time for me to…"

"To what?" she interrupted, looking at him directly. "Make love to me?" He nodded, and she smiled, losing her fingers in his hair. "Make me feel loved?" she continued. "Make me feel like I truly matter to at least one person in this wretched world?" His breath caught in his throat as she covered his hand that remained just over her breast, holding it to her in a gesture that rocked him everywhere. "Make me feel beautiful, after my husband made me feel like…" She paused, swallowing hard. "Like nothing," she concluded, her gaze falling from his. He kissed her mouth then, a soft, coaxing gesture so full of emotion he thought he might faint from it.

"You're everything, Mary," he insisted, caressing her breast, her chest, her legs. "Everything I want in life. Everything that matters."

"Then I'm yours," she whispered, and he shuddered at the declaration. "Don't feel guilty for simply making it so."

His skin heated immediately as her hand slid around his neck. Lips found each other yet again, the one part of his brain still uncertain that this was the right time and place silenced by the rest of him now lost to this incredible woman lying under him. Her robe slid off easily, his top coming off shortly after, but they hesitated in baring the other completely, reveling in the discovery of being partially clothed and so close it was nearly painful.

"Are you sure about this?" he managed, his lips muffled against her skin, his fingers threading the hem of her gown in his grip. She nodded, tossing him a half smile.

"Aren't you?"

"About you, yes," he answered without hesitation. "About whether or not we should do this just now…" He breaks off, sighing into the nearly non-existent space between them.

"You're still worried?" she asks, and he nods, his forehead dropping to hers.

"I just don't want you to have any regrets tomorrow," he noted. "Later today, I mean," he amends, making her smile and touch his face lightly. She continues to study him—his face, his brow, and she takes his hand in hers, tracing the lines of his fingers.

"And I don't need to involve you any further in this mess of a divorce of mine," she added, the regret in her tone unmistakable. "Richard already knows about you, and that frightens me."

"It shouldn't," he stated. "I'm glad he does, actually. Glad he knows you have someone who will stand up to him and fight for you."

"My champion," she muttered, rubbing a small circle over his temple as her brows creased in thought.

"My savior," he mused back, and she shook her head in exasperation.

"I'm hardly anyone's savior," she corrected firmly.

"Really?" he questioned. "I'd given up on any woman wanting to have anything to do with me until you appeared in my life." He cleared his throat, his brow creasing slightly. "For months, I sat around like a lump of coal, feeling sorry for myself and snapping at anyone who tried to tell me how unreasonable I was being." He paused, planting a kiss squarely over where her heart resided under the protection of her ribs. "Now here I am, half naked in bed with you when my own mother is sleeping just a few doors down. I'd say that's progress, wouldn't you?"

She chuckled, the sound a balm to his spirit.

"And what would it be if you were completely naked in bed with me?" she queried, a hint of mischief sneaking into her gaze.

"I'm not certain I possess adequate words for such a thought," he grinned, unable to keep from kissing her just under her ear. "But I'm willing to find out. Just…"

"Just not tonight," she finished for him, and he nodded, wishing he could talk himself out of his own convictions. He wanted her, wanted her badly, wanted to kiss away every bad memory, wanted to drive out any thought of her husband as he filled her completely, body and soul. "Should I go back to my room?" she asked, a subtle note of fear creeping into her tone.

"No," he assured her. "Unless you want to, that is." Her head was shaking before she found her voice.

"I don't want to leave you," she whispered, and he moved back beside her, gathering her into his arms, so little now separating skin from skin.

"Good," he returned. "Because I most certainly don't want you to go." Her cheek came to rest on his shoulder once again, and his hand resumed its calming gesture on her spine. They held each other in silence, his eyes just beginning to drift shut when her voice whispered into his heart.

"Loving me is not always easy, Matthew," she murmured, prompting him to cup the curve of her bottom with his palm.

"That's funny," he mused. "It's the most natural thing I've done in my life." He felt her ease into him then as arms tightened about his torso, her hair fanning out over his bare chest, his new life coming to rest just over his pulse. Her lips touched down just below his nipple, and for that moment, everything in his world was completely and utterly right.

Mary was here. In his bed. With him.

And he would be damned if he'd let anyone hurt her ever again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After eighty-four years, an update. :)

A nudge on his shoulder pulled him out of sleep into a semi-awakened state. The sun was too bright for early morning, so he must have slept in, and he blinked repeatedly in protest as his body begged him to linger in bed even longer. But something was off, he began to realize as he sensed a rhythmic breathing that wasn’t his own, noting that there was a warm, decidedly feminine form lying across his chest, and his bare chest at that. 

Mary. Mary had come to his bedroom last night. And his mother was currently standing over them trying to nudge him awake. 

His eyes flew wide open, and he breathed in through his nose, careful not to move too quickly lest he disturb the woman who’d cried into his pajamas last night and kissed his naked skin. But Mary nuzzled in closer, effectively pinning him to his bed in full view of his mother even though her eyes were still closed. 

He wished his were at the moment. Even with them wide open, he couldn’t make out his mother’s expression at all. Isobel gazed at him wordlessly, her eyes moving to Mary’s bare arms dotted with a patchwork of ugly purple splotches left by a husband Matthew wanted to kill with his own two hands. 

“She couldn’t sleep,” he whispered, watching as his mother nodded once. 

“Well, she’s sleeping now, “ Isobel replied as her eyes creased in thought. “I daresay she needs it.” She then looked back at him before turning and walking out of his bedroom. 

What in God’s name had just happened?

Warm breaths feathered across his neck, tracing an invisible line between her form and his heart. He tugged the blanket back over them, his fingers moving to trace the curves of her back now that watchful eyes were gone. She sighed into him, pale lips moving as her arm possessed him further, his body responding all too quickly to such an intimate touch. 

Mary Carlisle had quickly become everything to him. And he would make sure she never had to fear that bastard of a husband of hers ever again.

He laid there with her, not daring to move as morning’s shadows moved stealthily across his bedroom marking time’s all too hasty passage. He’d gladly stay wrapped up with her like this all day if his blasted bladder would leave him alone, but it was complaining insistently now, letting him know all too clearly that he had to either get up or make a mess of himself in more ways than one. 

“Are you alright?”

Her voice was muffled against his chest, it’s edges softened by sleep and spent tears. 

“I’m fine,” he replied, rubbing her back with an open palm. “I just desperately need to visit the loo.”

She sat up quickly at this, her pillow-mussed hair the most adorable sight he’d ever beheld.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, running fingers through hair sticking up several ways at once. “I didn’t mean--”

“It’s alright, Mary,” he breathed, cupping her cheek in his palm, willing himself not to wince at the black and puffy eye she was sporting. Her lip was still swollen, and she looked somehow smaller than she had last night. “No need to worry over a silly thing like this.” 

“It’s not silly,” she murmurs, swallowing self-consciously. “At least not when you’re the one who has to go.” 

He chuckled as she stood, allowing him to slide his body to the side of the bed before she both located and handed him his prosthesis. 

“Can I help?” she questioned as he began to attach it to his leg. He paused to look up at her, half-touched, half-mortified at what he was allowing her to watch. 

“I’m used to it,” he stated, feeling the tips of his ears begin to burn. She nodded, taking a step back with a look of uncertainty that made his stomach cinch. “But if you truly want to assist me…”

His words faded as her eyes met his head-on, their bruised and haunted quality crying out for reassurance just as assuredly as if she’d spoken. 

“You don’t have to coddle me, you know,” she uttered, reading his thoughts as clearly as if they were in print. 

“No,” he returned. “But I’d like to help take care of you, if you don’t mind, that is.”

She knelt in front of him then, touching where living flesh met science, helping to secure his artificial limb, her breath tickling the bare skin of his leg. 

“Only if you don’t mind that I want to help take care of you, too.” 

Her words were resolute, spoken with a resolve he couldn’t help but admire. 

“You drive a hard bargain, Mary Rose,” he grinned, melting at the small smile that spreads across battered features. He utterly refused to call her Mary Carlisle.

“Don’t you forget it, soldier,” she returned, leaning over to kiss him gently, stealing yet another piece of his heart with deft fingers. “Should I try to sneak back into my room now?”

His expression fell, straightening her spine at once.

“Mother was in here earlier this morning,” he confessed, feeling her exhale across his skin. “She’s already aware that you slept in here last night.” 

“Thank God we decided to leave our clothes on,” she muttered, his ears now hot enough to melt wax. 

“Well, some of our clothes, anyway,” he noted as he reached for his discarded pajama top. She blushed then, the pink nearly invisible under angry purple, yellow and black splotches, but there all the same. “I should put this on, I suppose,” he added. “Mother seeing me shirtless once in one day is one time too many.” 

She smiled as she grabbed up her robe and slid it onto her body. 

“If you hadn’t stopped things…” she began, her hands hesitating as they reached for her sash. 

Her brows flickered into her scalp as he reached out to cup her cheek. 

“I didn’t want to stop things,” he confessed with a lopsided smile. “Believe me. But it was the right thing to do.” 

She nodded as she stood, stepping back to allow him the room he needed to grab a hold of his cane and push himself upright. She gazed at him with something akin to wonder, something he wasn’t used to seeing when eyes fell on his injured body. He felt taller when he was with her, taller and complete in a manner no other human being had ever made him feel.

“Well,” she muttered as she secured her robe and tightened it around her waist. “I’ll leave you to it then.” 

Eyes held each other for a breathless moment, teasing, beckoning, wanting until he could stand it no longer. He leaned forward to kiss her, nearly missing her in his trajectory and losing his balance in the process. She braced her arms against his chest, steadying him as he righted himself with his cane, looking back at him in concern. 

“Are you alright?”

His skin burned as he looked into her eyes. 

“Other than being completely and utterly mortified, I’m peachy.” 

She grinned then, feathering a kiss across his lips the nearly set him on fire. 

“Don’t be mortified,” she breathed. “After all, I’m the one who has to go out there and face your mother.” 

His head dropped with his exhale. 

“I think that task has been assigned to us both.” He looked at his bedroom door which his mother had thankfully closed when she’d exited earlier. His palm rubbed his chin, and he wondered just what Isobel had been thinking since finding them wrapped up together, half-naked, emotionally spent, and loathe to let each other go. 

“I’m the one who came to your bedroom,” she added. “After showing up unexpectedly on your doorstep last night. Technically, I’m the instigator in all of this.” 

Her gaze hollowed, making a chill ran up his good leg. 

“No. None of this is your fault, Mary,” he assured her. “What that husband of yours did to you, the fact that you needed a safe place to stay, that you couldn’t sleep after…” The words stuck in his throat, clinging to his esophagus as if they’d been coated in glue. “After he hurt you.” 

She swallowed loudly enough for him to hear, and he wondered if she’d feared for her life last night, if she’d prayed someone would hear her screams and come to her aid, if she’d tried to fight back as punches flew and her home shattered at her feet. 

“I hate him,” Matthew said, his throat burning as if his sentence were made of fire. “So help me, Mary, if I ever meet the man face to face, I may just…”

“No.” 

Her voice was steady, her gaze resolute. 

“The fact that I’ve dragged you into the middle of my divorce is bad enough,” she said, her eyes falling yet again. “If anything happened to you because of me, I’d...I’d never be able to live with myself, Matthew.” 

He cupped her chin in his hand, drawing her gaze back to his, dotting a kiss to lips swollen by the wrong means. 

“I jumped feet first into the middle of your divorce,” he corrected. “There was no dragging necessary.” Her chin quivered as her fingers clutched his pajama top, and he wrapped one arm around her as she wrapped both of hers around his waist. “I love you. Remember? We’re in this together, you and I.”

She nodded, still reluctant to look at him. 

“I remember,” she managed. “I just don’t understand why. Why you love me, I mean.”

He caressed where Richard had left marks, wiping a stray tear onto his thumb, absorbing this small piece of her into his very marrow. 

“Because you’re a part of me, now,” he replied. “Because you fit me far better than my artificial leg ever could.” 

She tried to smile through insistent tears, allowing him to pull her into his chest as he kissed her hair. 

“I only pray I don’t contaminate you,” she whispered. 

“Not going to happen,” he insisted. “You’re too pure for that, Mary, far better than you think you are.” He felt her shake her head into his chest, and his free hand reached up to cup her hair, her skull, her very being to try to show her what was so evident to him. “You’re not the person that Richard has led you to believe you are.” 

She hiccuped and stood up straight. 

“I’m not sure I’m all you think I am, either.” 

Her words cracked open as they fell off her lips. 

“No,” he agreed, surprising her. “You’re more.”

She shook her head, looking into him as no one ever had. 

“I hope I’m allowed to be your Mary,” she began. “For all eternity.” 

He felt her tremble, and he kissed her forehead, carefully avoiding the side purpled by a man’s fist. 

“You’ll always be my Mary,” he breathed. “And I’m all the luckier for it.” 

A small commotion was heard from the kitchen, and she stepped away from him, smiling as she wiped her eyes. 

“I should go and help your mother,” she said. “After all, she gave me a place to sleep last night. The least I can do is help her with breakfast.” 

“I’ll join you momentarily,” he stated, smiling at her as she opened his bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway. He heard voices and sent up a prayer that his mother’s sense and tact would prevail over the instinct to protect her adult son. But he had to relieve himself, there was no way around it, so he made his way to the loo, gratified to hear what sounded like congenial conversation being had between the two women in his life. 

His thoughts raced as he washed his hands, and he gazed into the small mirror, touching the cheek she’d kissed, closing his eyes as her scent washed over him. She was a goddess, his Mary, and he be damned if any man would ever lay a finger on her again, especially Richard Carlisle. 

He splashed water on his face, drying it with a towel as his mind formulated a plan that made sense to him. He’d visit the club this afternoon, would let the band know why their lead singer had been unable to perform last night and would ask them to let him know if Mary’s husband showed up trying to find her. In the meantime, he’d contact his mother’s cousin, a police superintendent from Hastings to ask for his advice in how to best proceed. 

Yes. This was good. This was progress. Simply waiting for Richard to make the next move was no good at all. 

Plan in mind, he made his way toward the kitchen, the scents of toast and eggs making his stomach rumble as Mary brought him a cup of tea. 

“Thank you,” he said, relieved to see her looking more relaxed than she had in his bedroom. 

“Here you go, dear,” Isobel cut in, handing Matthew a plate as he sat down at the small table. “Mary, why don’t you sit down and eat, too. I suspect you need nourishment.” 

The younger woman nodded and sat down beside him, and he dared a quick squeeze to her knee while his mother wasn’t looking. 

“You should eat, too, Mother,” he said. 

“I’ve already eaten,” Isobel clarified, making her way towards the table with a plate for Mary. “But I’ll join the two of you for another cup of tea.” 

They ate in silence a few moments, each afraid to speak, each wondering if one stray train of thought would launch an amiable breakfast into a confrontation nobody wanted. 

“I’m sorry you had difficulty sleeping, Mary,” Isobel finally stated, bypassing small talk and getting right to the point. “I suppose you had to much on your mind.” 

Mary took a slow sip of her tea, setting her cup down before making eye contact with the older woman. 

“I did,” she replied. “And still do, to be honest.” Isobel nodded, eyeing Mary before directing her attention towards her son. 

“Are you planning on contacting the authorities?” 

“Yes.”

“No.”

Their answers clashed mid-air, bringing their eyes together even as their ideas collided.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mary stated. “Richard is volatile.” 

“Which is why he needs to be in jail,” Matthew cut in, reaching over to touch her arm. “He can’t be allowed to roam around free, Mary, not after what he did to you.” 

“But if he catches up with you--”

“He won’t,” Matthew insisted. “What did you say that he knew about us? That you were seeing someone? He doesn’t know my name or where I live, does he?”

Mary paused and looked down at her tea. 

“No,” she confessed. “Thank God. But that doesn’t mean that he couldn’t discover both of those things if he chose to go digging.”

“Nor does it mean that he will,” Matthew said, willing his voice to sound as calm and reasonable as it could. “Mary, I refuse to live in fear of this man. He needs to face the consequences of what he did to you.” 

She began to worry her hands, clasping them tightly together in order to keep them from trembling. 

“He’ll make it sound like it’s my fault,” she uttered. “He always does.”

He scooted his chair closer to hers so he could clasp her hands firmly. 

“Look at me,” he insisted, remaining silent until she did just that. “This is not your fault, nor has it ever been.”   
“Matthew’s right,” Isobel interjected, instantly capturing both of their attention. “Men who treat women the way he treated you are quite adept at passing the blame off on their victims, even though the responsibility rests solely with them. The Richards of this world must be made to answer for their crimes, Mary. I think you know and believe this.” 

Mary’s head fell, her expression far too wary. 

“I do,” the younger woman admitted. “But you know how difficult it is to get the authorities to take you seriously when the man in question is your husband.” 

Isobel sucked in a breath before taking a deliberate sip of her tea. 

“You’ve spoken with the authorities before?” she asked , receiving a slow nod as an answer. 

“Several months ago,” Mary replied. “It wasn’t this bad, I mean, he rarely left a mark, he was smart that way. But he twisted my arm so badly that I sprained it, and…” She paused, taking another sip of tea. “And I decided to report him.” 

“Nothing happened?”

The words fell incredulously off his tongue, stinging on their way out. 

“He was called into the police station for questioning,” Mary answered. “But when he told them that I sang at a nightclub, that I’d left him and filed for divorce, well, they assumed I was both a gold-digger and a woman of loose morals who got roughed up by a patron one night and decided to blame her husband.” 

“Dear God,” Matthew whispered as he clenched his fist repeatedly. He imagined his hands around Richard Carlilse’s throat, could all too easily feel the imagined sensation of his fingers cutting off the man’s air supply, thus forcing him to beg for mercy. 

“The husband is usually given the benefit of the doubt,” Mary continued, her shoulders slumping in near defeat. “While the wife is left to fend for herself.” 

“It’s so wrong,” Matthew uttered, rubbing his fingers over his scalp.

“It is,” Isobel agreed. “It’s been wrong for centuries, yet it continues. And you’re right, Mary. It can certainly be more difficult to see justice served in an abusive marriage situation. But it doesn’t mean that it’s impossible. And if you stand up to Richard now, you may protect other women from him, as well as yourself.” 

Mary gazed at Isobel, swallowing with difficulty.

“That’s what I want,” she stated. “It’s what I’ve wanted for longer than I can remember now, but it’s so bloody hard sometimes. He has means at his disposal, while I…” She broke off and shook her head. “I have a job singing at a nightclub just to make ends meet.” 

“She’s been trying to divorce him for months,” Matthew added, giving Mary’s hands a gentle squeeze. 

“And he doesn’t like that fact, I take it,” Isobel observed, watching Mary slowly shake her head. “Well, I must say that it’s very brave of you to stand up for yourself as you are. Too many women let fear keep them from taking that first step away from an abuser.” 

“I don’t feel very brave,” Mary murmured, looking up to meet Isobel’s gaze. 

“The bravest souls usually don’t,” Isobel replied with a gentle touch to Mary’s arm. A tear trickled down the younger woman’s cheek, and she wiped her face with her napkin, trying her best to keep her composure in tact.

“I told Mary that she can stay here with us for as long as she needs,” he said, watching his mother carefully. Isobel’s eyes flickered in his direction, claiming his directly before she nodded in agreement.

“Absolutely,” she agreed, straightening her spine. “We’re here to support you in any way that we can.” 

Mary shook her head. 

“But why? Why would you do this--open up your home, take in a stranger…”

“You’re hardly a stranger,” Matthew argued, remembering the feel of her breasts in his hands.

“I am to your mother,” Mary countered.

“But not to Matthew,” Isobel said. She looked back at her son without blinking before offering him a small smile. “And I trust his judgement.” 

He grinned back at her, breathing a silent prayer of thanks for her support in this matter. 

“Then I suppose I will, too,” Mary stated, gazing at him with eyes in which he could happily drown. She inhaled and pressed her lips together before clearing her throat. “If both of you really believe that contacting the authorities is the right thing for me to do, then I’ll do it.” 

His smiled in relief, drawing a full breath he hoped conveyed confidence. They would do this, he and Mary. They would report her husband, would see justice done so her divorce could be finalized and they would be granted the freedom to actually envision and plan a shared future.

“Good for you,” Isobel stated, giving Mary a smile that warmed him everywhere at once. 

“And remember,” Matthew added, once again squeezing Mary’s hand, thanking whatever powers were responsible for bringing her into his life. “You don’t have to do this alone.” 

“Thank God,” Mary breathed, clutching his hand so tightly that he could feel her terror.


End file.
